


The Fine Line

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Backrubs, Community: uncuffmybrother, Frottage, Incest, M/M, Massage, Pre-Series, Prompt Fic, Season/Series 02, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:36:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It becomes a pattern, and then a larger pattern. Back-rubs every now and then evolve into every-other-day-ones that morph into daily massages. (Pre-series, season 2.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fine Line

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HalfshellVenus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfshellVenus/gifts).



> Written for HalfshellVenus for the [PB Christmas Gift Event](http://uncuffmybrother.livejournal.com/13501.html) at uncuffmybrother. Her request was Michael/Lincoln and ‘back-rub’.

Michael’s thumbs press hard into the tense muscles of Lincoln’s neck and shoulders. He’s not nearly as good at this as he imagines he is, but far from being as bad as Lincoln thought he would be when he offered his assistance.

That’s not a thought Lincoln will share with him because Michael doesn’t handle well not being perfect at... anything he tackles. Better to be subtle and breathe out directions mixed with appreciative murmurs.

The nimble hands work on the trapezius, where cold, humidity and strain have knotted the muscles, fingers drumming lightly and knuckles digging deep and...

… yes, Michael’s far from being as bad as Lincoln thought he would be, and he’s improving with each of Lincoln’s requests and suggestions. Always attuned to his big brother’s needs, Michael. After a long, shitty first day on a construction site, Lincoln is _this_ close to melting into their battered couch.

He rolls his shoulders, swallows down a barely appropriate grunt and looks up. From the corner of his eye, he can spot Michael’s secretive and happy smile.

—

It becomes a pattern, and then a larger pattern. Back-rubs every now and then evolve into every-other-day-ones that morph into daily massages. They start with a few quick squeezes that shift to fifteen-minute long sessions before filling the whole evening with Lincoln sprawled on his stomach and Michael straddling the backs of his legs. Shirt on at first, shirt off after a while, and then with Michael using some sort of baby oil or who-cares-what as long as it feels so nice. The old TV set flickers washed out images six foot away. Neither of them pay attention to it, Lincoln too tired and relaxed, Michael too focused on something much more important than any TV show or documentary.

Time has passed. Michael’s hands are bigger than when they did this for the first time, stronger and more assured. Confident and warm. They brush and massage and knead, punish and reward in the same motion. They’re demanding in what they offer, but Lincoln bites his tongue and shuts up. He has a hunch that bringing this up wouldn’t be a good idea.

The odd light in the kid’s eyes when Linc casts him a glance over his shoulder comforts him in his impression.

“It’s late,” he says with as much wisdom as regret. “Go to bed, Michael.”

Michael is too old to be told to go to sleep. But his hands slide off the supple muscles, oiled and warm from his ministrations, and he complies without a protest.

—

He’s guilty. So said the jury.

It lasts barely five seconds before the cops or the tribunal guards or who-gives-a-fuck tear them apart. The five longest seconds during which Michael’s fingers clamp Lincoln’s shoulders through the fabric of his cheap suit. Hard and relentless and hurting. So different from the massages he used to give him a few years back, so evidently desperate and yet promising... something Lincoln can’t put his finger on.

He holds onto the sensation of the tight clench. No matter how the idea strikes him as weird, he thinks that hopefully, there will be bruises.

Lincoln doesn’t have it in him to shrug Michael’s hands – fuck, shrug _him_ – off even though it would be better, both literally and metaphorically speaking.

—

They’re on the run.

The motel is shabby but discreet, the towels and the sheets are reasonably clean, the bed is still more comfortable than the seats of the car. That’s the best they can afford anyway; that’s even a bit more than they can afford, but they’ll manage later.

Michael teeters on a very fine line between casual back-rub and _this_ kind of back-rub. When Lincoln relaxes under his touch, groans with pleasure and asks, “What do you want, Michael?” Michael doesn’t answer.

Not right away, at least, because after a few broad strokes covering the whole width of Lincoln’s shoulders and the best part of his back, he says, “What I _don’t_ want it to be is payment.” He leans down and kisses the muscles his hands have just warmed.

Lincoln shivers.

He dislodges Michael, rolls onto his back and tugs him down. They lie together, chest to chest, stomach to stomach. Michael’s skin is smooth and still cool from the shower, and Lincoln would swear he can feel the lines and whirls of the tattoo beneath his fingertips. If he was a better man, he would avoid the patch of burnt skin on Michael’s shoulder altogether, wouldn’t try to claim _everything_ including the most damaged parts of Michael. As it is, he carefully lays the palm of his hand on the wound-dressing. His other hand closes around the nape of Michael’s neck, massages and squeezes until his brother utters a ridiculous needy little whine.

Michael rises up on his elbow and looks expectantly into Lincoln’s eyes as he reaches down between them to unbuckle their belts and open their pants; just enough. Just enough to free and press together parts of them that shouldn’t touch and be pressed together – ever. He chokes a bit when he finds out that Lincoln is hot and hard, as much if not more as he is himself. Almost laughing at his fluster, Lincoln kneads his neck more roughly. It has to be the best evidence that payment has nothing to do with all that, hasn’t it?

_“What is more innocent than a back-rub?” Michael asked him once as Lincoln half-heartedly – very half-heartedly – accused Michael of pushing it too far._

_It was years ago, when Michael was still in college. Long and elegant fingers ran all the way up Lincoln’s spine and closed around the bunched muscles of his shoulders._

_Lincoln snorted. He was not naïve. It was a slippery slope, and he’d known for years that they always were an inch away from taking the plunge. Maybe not since that very first session because that would have been creepy, but for years, certainly. Always teetering on this fine line and keeping a precarious balance._

Their hips slot and roll against one another’s; the velvety touch, the friction arching Lincoln’s back off the bed.

That’s not what throws him off the fine line, though. What manages to make him lose his balance are the thumbs brushing over his collarbones, the fingers massaging his shoulders, the old feelings of trust and comfort and love they stroke up to the surface.

FIN


End file.
